


Balm In Gilead

by chewysugar



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kissing, M/M, Memories, Nightmares, Sleeping Together, The Animus (Assassin's Creed), Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16378910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Touching the Animus one long and weary night shows Shaun that he and Desmond share a very special connection.





	Balm In Gilead

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe...but you know that already. 
> 
> Also, this could be considered a spiritual sequel OR prequel to my other story, Painting Adonis.

Another bloody day trapped in this bloody place. If it weren’t for the fact that he was instrumental in saving the world, Shaun would have cut and run. But no. He had to go being a do-gooder. Would that he were one of those people who could simply abscond with the loot. But what could he say? His parents had taught him well. And, as the song went, good people knew good people. Shaun had had the fortune of being one of those types who simply attracted the less evil by being a not-all-that-bad-to-be-around fellow himself.

Still…one could only play babysitter for so long.

Shaun looked around the screen of his computer. He could just see Desmond through the darkness, prone on the Animus like some slumbering figure out of myth. For all the world it looked as if the man were dead. His vitals, steady as ever on the screens in front of Shaun, remained wholly in tact. Heartbeat normal—well, for the most part, given what it was that he was seeing. Brain functioning as it should—again, for someone receiving the memories of an ancient ancestor.

Desmond was, for all intents and purposes, sound as a pound. As much as he griped about it—and he did so plenty and often—Shaun wouldn’t leave the big lug alone. Not when he was in such a vulnerable place. If not only due to the fact that he, Shaun, was many things, but among them not a monster.

Besides, he could still have his fun with Desmond. It delighted him, when bored, to find some random piece of historical information, which he would then beam directly into Ezio's memories. When the minutes dragged by at an interminable pace, all Shaun had to do for a laugh was say, in his best ITV caster voice: “Did you know, that the mosaic to your left is actually a detailed depiction of the conception of the Minotaur? And I mean _very_ detailed.” Or, if he were in a more culinary mood: “Smell that? Isn’t it the most delicious thing to ever enter your nostrils? Well that, my friend, is the fragrant spice of stuffed dormouse! You can see them on that vendor over there.”

Tonight, though—or was it today?—he didn’t much feel in the mood for hi-jinks. Desmond’s vitals were somewhat too unsteady for Shaun’s peace of mind. The heightened beeping of the heart monitor made it almost impossible for him to pay attention to anything, let alone take a nap at the control station.

With little outlet for his bored mind, he could only sit and think of what in the world was happening. Or rather, what in the world had happened in the life of one Ezio Auditore de Firenze. Shaun knew enough about the man’s history to be both intrigued and also cautious. Ezio had been a notorious rogue, even after the tragedy that had guided him towards the Assassin's. Desmond never fully divulged what he saw or did in those memories, but it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to piece together what might be happening.

This, though, didn’t seem like the signs of excitement or lust.

Grimacing, Shaun initiated the communication link to the Animus. “Keep it together, Miles. You have a reputation as a gym rat to live up to.”

He had to condescend. Had to be withering. Everyone had a talent, and among the ones Shaun Hastings counted as his own was biting sarcasm. Some people, like Rebecca, liked to think it was armor--a way of deflecting from the fact that he was a soft, nougat of a man underneath his rock-like exterior. That explanation would be better suited to a Harlequin Romance novel. Shaun simply liked his acerbic sensibility, and happened to be rather good at welding it.

Now though, as he continued to watch Desmond’s vital signs go haywire, his grasp on the trenchant blade proved very weak indeed.

“Desmond,” Shaun said sharply, “find an apothecary yesterday.”

No response met the remark. Desmond—Ezio, in this instance—could always be counted on to mutter something in reply. Shaun looked from the monitor to the Animus. His own heart began to beat fast--too fast for his liking.

Panic was not something that Shaun enjoyed giving into. His energy could be better spent brooding over impending apocalypse’s, berating delivery men for bringing him a poorly assembled donair, and ranting about the latest plot twist on _Game of Thrones_. This unpleasant prickling of his nerves had to be dealt with summarily, lest it bring him to ruin.

And of course, he couldn’t let anything happen to Desmond. Not just because the man held the future of the world in his stupid big hands, but because, animosity aside, Shaun was rather fond of the bloke.

Shaun pushed himself away from the command station. Headquarters remained silent and mostly dark around him. The glow from the animus and his own monitors gave the whole place a strange, eerie, almost fairy tale feeling—as if he were walking from one dream to a nightmare.

He heard Desmond before he fully saw him. For one so big and solid, hearing Desmond grunt and moan in pain sent a perceptible chill into the pit of Shaun’s guts. He hurried closer. Desmond lay on the surface of the memory machine, but he was anything aside from still.

His body jerked and spasmed as if he were being electrocuted.

“Desmond?” Shaun began to feel somewhat helpless. It wasn’t a good for his sense of masculinity, but this went beyond much of what he’d seen occur with the Animus. Granted, the machine was new, and before Desmond hadn’t been tested to much success, but…

Shaun’s hands hovered inches above Desmond’s body. He couldn’t pull him from the memory, not until it reached it’s conclusion. Ezio wouldn’t die, because he’d lived to a rather ripe old age—many, many years away from the spot Desmond had been traversing. Yet Shaun couldn't just stand there and observe as his friend went into paroxysms of pain.

Desmond clenched his jaw. His eyes remained shut. From across the room, Shaun heard his monitor begin to beep in a hyperactive rhythm.

“Wake up, you idiot,” he hissed. “Come on. Open your damn eyes.”

Desmond’s back bowed. His body arched, as if he would propel himself from the confines of the animus. His mouth opened, stretching in a horrible, silent scream. It plucked at a part of Shaun’s heart that still stopped to pet stray cats; still took pity on the poor and destitute…still couldn’t bare to see a fellow human in needless suffering.

“DESMOND!” He screamed. He seized the other man by the shoulders, not caring for all due and proper protocol. “DESMOND, WAKE UP!”

For a moment he felt the shocks of Desmond’s chaotic spasms. It was like holding onto the trunk of a tree during an earthquake: Shaun felt the shaking in his own marrow; his teeth clacked together, and his chest tightened. He wondered if he himself was receiving some of the pain in Ezio’s memory bank.

But no. It was only his own body and being’s reaction to trying to settle a turbulent fellow. Shaun’s own frantic shouts rang in his ears, and it was only when he realized that he was hearing himself still yelling that he also realized Desmond had finally settled down.

Breathing as if he’d run the length of the Appalachian Trail, Shaun relinquished his grasp on Desmond’s shirt. He stared, confused. Desmond lay now quite silent and still. Dread prickled through Shaun’s bloodstream at the thought that Desmond had died. The overwhelming sorrow that drowned his soul stunned him. Sure, he liked Desmond underneath it all, but he didn’t think the river ran quite that deep. The thought that he’d lost his—well, his friend, for want of a better word—hurt like a two-by-four to the solar plexus.

Desmond, though, was not dead. He’d settled back into even, steady breathing. The only other sounds beyond that and Shaun’s heartbeat was the slow metronome of beeps coming from the distant monitor.

What in the fuck had happened?

Completely bemused, Shaun did the only thing he could think of: he prodded Desmond in the chest. Nothing happened. It was as if the chaotic scene hadn't transpired at all. Shaun gave his arm a quick pinch, wondering if he’d succumbed to sleep deprivation of some kind.

Of course, everything remained as it was.

Shaun sighed. Desmond had been through the ringer with all the memories he’d lived. He’d endured beatings the likes of which most mixed martial arts fighters couldn’t handle. None of those instances had resulted in such a pained reaction. And now this still, almost sleep-like state.

“God damn it,” Shaun muttered. “Scaring the hell out of me.” He swatted Desmond’s knee. “You’re going to pay for that when you wake up.” He turned and, in the act of letting his hand slide from Desmond’s leg, brushed his palm against the surface of the Animus.

It happened in a split-second, like a flash of lightning. One second he was looking across the dark space of headquarters. And the next, he was falling—

—falling to pieces. His hands, not his own, but the strong hands of an artist and inventor, trembled as they plied a scarred and bruised body with warm, soothing ointment. The room was dark, lit by only a few small burning lamps. Still, it was not so dim that he could not see each bloody mark and blue stain.

“You fucking idiot.” His voice shook as badly as his fingers. “What did you think you were doing, arousing half the guard like that?”

“I thought I was being careful.” He felt a rush of satisfaction that the nearly naked man before him sounded properly ashamed. “It was an ambush, _amore mio_.”

He grit his teeth. There were a thousand recriminations he could say; but words, he knew, stung worse than injuries such as these. Besides, he loved his charge too much to risk causing him any further hurt.

“You’re not leaving this building until things settle down.”

The man with his bloodied back hissed. “I can, ah, always take the wanted pos—

“ _No_!” A sob threatened to choke his voice. But he wouldn’t dare utter it. “Ezio, this isn’t Florence. This is Naples. The guard and the bravos here crawl around like hornets in a hive. They’ve got half the city in their pocket. You so much as step outside to piss on a wall and they'll strike.” 

"You know I have a mission."

"To hell with it. You leave here before I say so and I will never speak to you again."

Ezio turned. His vestments had long ago been discarded. He stood with nothing more than his breeches on. In any other circumstance, the sight of his leonine strength and bared skin would have been cause for no uncertain excitement. But now, bloodied and beaten, he was less a vision of Mars and more a stark reminder of mortality.

His eyes, mercifully spared from the assault of the pursuing guard, shone in the flickering lamp light. Bright and wide, he looked on the verge of tears.

“Leonardo…” A strong hand closed over his healer’s shoulder. Leonardo tried to shrug out of the touch. His anger and fear were alike only to that felt on those sleepless nights when he lay awake painting vivid nightmares of what could befall the man he loved. This, though, proved more overwhelming in that it was real—terribly real, and too terribly close to the ultimate dread of losing this remarkable, reckless human being.

“I don’t want you to die,” Leonardo whispered, staring at his feet. “Not now. We’re supposed to live to be old men. We're supposed to spend our last days as outcasts, living in some crumbling shack in the hills until the day we die.” Supposed to waste away, leaving nothing behind but the memory that they’d loved and lived. The legacy was meant to be immortal: Leonardo’s own ingenuity and creativity; Ezio’s courage and fight against conspiracy and evil.

Ezio wasn’t supposed to die young and beautiful. Not when Leonardo had just given him the most irreplaceable treasure of all.

“I’m not going to die.”

“You could.” It hurt to say aloud. “You think I don’t lie here night after night in terror of that fact? You’re not a farmhand, Ezio. You’re doing the most dangerous thing I can imagine, and it could cost you everything…more than you’ve already paid.”

Ezio took Leonardo’s face in his hands. Again, Leonardo tried not to acquiesce to the touch, but it couldn’t be helped. Ezio’s hands had wrung the life out of men; yet with Leonardo, he was nothing but loving. It was why Leonardo had done his utmost to capture Ezio in repose and peace in every sketch and painting. He wanted, if not to the world then at least the two of them, to display the heart of the man—not the rage and power.

Try as he might, he couldn’t resist the touch. He found himself staring, lost in those two windows of hazel pain and persistence. Ezio’s nose had been broken—not for the first time. Leonardo had reset it first thing upon being roused. Cuts marked Ezio’s jaw and forehead. Fortunately they’d been the first thing to feel the soothing sting of Leonardo’s precious supply of healing ointment.

“I have to,” Ezio said, and he sounded, for the first time, as if he hated his fate. “You know that I have to. Not just for vengeance, but for all this—for you, and this insane, lovely world that you capture and try to improve.”

“You don’t have to die.”

“And I won’t. Not if I have you.”

Pretty words; words that had melted many a guileless heart. Leonardo, though, wasn't so easily swayed. Ezio's vow didn’t settle the argument at all. But Leonardo was so tired—both in body and in spirit—that he couldn’t find the point in resisting any longer. Besides, deep in the pit of his soul, he know nothing short of assassinating every single member of the Borgia family would put Ezio at peace.

He took his beautiful fool in his arms, gently as he could, and rested his head against Ezio’s shoulder.

“Why did I have to fall in love with a hero?” He murmured.

Ezio didn’t respond. At least not with his words. His hands snaked under the long shirt that Leonardo always wore to bed. Leonardo sighed, his neck arching.

“You’re hurt,” he reminded Ezio, even as he felt his clothes slip from his body.

“I only wish to hold you tonight.”

That, at least, was something they could agree on. Leonardo led Ezio towards the back of the little home that functioned as his whole world—his place of rest, his studio…a hideout. The lamp light burned until it touched sputtering oil. Together, the two climbed into Leonardo’s bed. Ezio’s warmth proved more comforting than even the thickest of blankets. The smell of him, the nearness of him, lulled Leonardo’s fears, even though he still could not shake the image of each bloody scar and blossoming bruise.

A sea of blissful unconsciousness overtook him. Just before he gave in to the pulling shadows, he heard the gentle rumble of Ezio’s voice, whispering in his ear: “ _Ti amo_ …”

Sleep wrapped him round. He fell through darkness and—

—awoke in darkness.

Shaun found himself staring at the cold, industrial panel walls of headquarters. His entire body thrummed with a strange energy. The only immediate comparison he had was a post-coital rush. He hastily glanced at his pants, hoping against hope that he hadn’t creamed his jeans due to the strength of that memory.

Luck was on his side. Still, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling. That had been his own ancestor’s memory, he was sure of it. The notion that he was descended from the great Da Vinci affected him less than what it was he’d experienced through the great master's senses.

On legs that felt like twigs, he got to his feet. Desmond looked to be sleeping soundly. Normally when Ezio retired, Desmond pulled himself from the clutches of the Animus. At present, he seemed content to remain in the recesses of his ancestor’s most treasured recollections.

And Shaun couldn’t blame him in the least. Even to someone as shielded from sentimentality as he, that memory was utterly precious. At some point in their history, his ancestor and Desmond’s had shared something pure. Shaun wouldn’t condemn or criticize that, not even under threat.

He sighed. Leonardo da Vinci had lived to a ripe old age. So had Ezio. He found himself hoping that Leonardo’s hopes for them to grow old together had, to some extent, come true. But Shaun understood that the chances of that were quite remote. The Dark Ages hadn’t exactly been accommodating of unconventional love stories, no matter how pure the story was.

Just before he walked away, he paused. Really, Desmond Miles was a very handsome man. Tall, broad shouldered, with a sort of wolverine look to his countenance. Oh, he was infuriating, yes; cocksure and a bit too dense for Shaun’s liking. But he was good—well and truly good. And again, handsome.

“Here,” he said, speaking to a dozen things at once: himself, the sleeping beauty before him; the universe at large, and the long distant memories of Ezio and his genius lover. “This’ll be one for the history books.”

And, making sure not to apply too much pressure, he kissed Desmond. He lingered a bit too long, finding the warmth and softness the most exquisite kind of pleasant. Then he stood, his pulse going at a stallion's gallop.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered.

He was pretty certain that he saw Desmond smile in his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
